A Woodlands Drama

The imperious dome of the sky
is resolutely blue, with a faint
haze of deeply humid air, slightly
wafted by an over-heated wind,
rustling foliage, relieving but
minimally the cloying atmosphere.

All is tranquil, barely a sound
emanates from any ambient source.
Even the depleted watercourse
no longer runs but lethargically;
barely a ripple to glance back
the burning orb of the sun.

A sudden, high-pitched shriek
alarms the air, as a hawk pitches
itself into spirals through the
dense heat of the sky. A blackbird,
pecking desultorily on dry ground
suddenly spreads wing, thrusting
wildly into the receiving sky.

There are no small woodlands
animals yet to be seen, wary in
their dens. Several brown, striped
feathers lie in testimony to a recent
night-time drama that unfolded
with desperation never heard.

Uncaring buttercups and Solomon's
seal reveal their flowery presence.
Fleabane perkily blooms, and
cowvetch begins its strangling
summer devotional. Blue-eyed
grass blooms in great innocence.